


a gentleman never tells

by sadie18



Series: business unfinished [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Assassins & Hitmen, Attraction, Career Ending Injuries, Hockey, Ice Skating, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Organized Crime, Retirement, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 10:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadie18/pseuds/sadie18
Summary: oliver, with a chip on his shoulder and a chance to get a salary raise, gets assigned to injure marcus flint.marcus flint has always been a bit too cocky for his own good, anyways-the second installment in "business unfinished", but can be read as a standalone





	a gentleman never tells

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiiii come chat w me on tumblr @oliivverwood

There was something so _paradoxical _in being attracted to a target, Oliver mused, tapping his fingers on his laps in an uneven beat. It was _ironic. _

A target was in an inferior position. Oliver was not. 

He'd had to kill, maim, disturb many pretty people in his successful time as a hitman, but Marcus Flint felt new, like his first assignment all over again. Nervous, determined and heart wrenching.

It was targets like Marcus Flint that filled him with nostalgia, of the end of his hockey career, stopped unceremoniously by a devastating injury to his knee, and the beginning of _this, _when Percy Weasley had approached him in the midst of his depressive slump, saying, _"I can make you useful. I can make you needed. You can be a part of a team again." _

Oliver had always been a part of a team. He'd always been needed, until he had been stretchered off the ice for the last time. 

Now, seven expensive assignments later, he was here. Watching. Learning. _Waiting. _

He watched as Marcus stepped on the first-place platform of the podium on the ice, his cheeks flush and grinning in an almost feral way, revealing a row of crooked teeth. Around him, the crowd roared. 

* * *

_"Got something for me?" _

_Oliver paced the bare floor of his penthouse apartment. New York was beautiful, really, especially in the quiet moments like this, the orange-cream colour of the sun breaking the horizon and washing the city with a warm glow. Below him, people began to stir. _

_Sometimes he missed the quiet of Saskatchewan, but only sometimes. America was his oyster. Canada was his past._

_He painfully forced his eyes away from the jersey hung on the wall, "WOOD" emblazoned on the back._

_"Big job." Percy murmured into the phone. "Maybe your biggest one yet." _

_Oliver hummed absentmindedly, watching cars sputter by on the roads. "Bigger than Miles Bletchley?"_

_He could practically hear Percy roll his eyes. "Don't be disgusting. He was a cheap job, you slept with him for fun, yeah, I _know._"_

_Oliver chuckled. "All a part of the fun, Perce."_

_"Whatever. Marcus Flint, heard of him?"_

_Heard of him? More like who _hadn't. _Oliver's interest was piqued. _

_"Who wants him out?" _

_Percy tutted. "I'll send the information. You're not going to want to turn this one down."_

* * *

Marcus Flint skated like he'd been walking on the ice all his life. He jumped to heights in the sky that Oliver could only dream of reaching, and he was _flexible, _God, how the man could _bend. _He moved seamlessly to the wordless music filling the mostly empty arena, turning at dizzying speeds. As he finished his routine, he glided towards his coach, who looked on at him with a pinched face, turning sharply then showering her in ice. They chattered in Russian, too far away and too fast for Oliver to catch.

His face was plain, nothing special, pale with a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones. His eyes were dark, above them were his thick brows knitted together in thought. His neck was long, growing downwards and revealing broad shoulders and a wide chest, with collarbones sticking out in his scantily-cut shirt. Said shirt was _tight, _leaving little to the imagination, revealing plains of _muscle. _

The coach waved him off again, and Marcus went back to skating, putting on a show for the few people that had nothing better to do than watch an Olympic figure skater train. Oliver snorted. 

There was a time in his life that being off the ice, the ice that was _so close, _would have physically _hurt _him. 

Now, he just watched. 

* * *

"_Your baby sister doesn't want the job, eh?" Oliver murmured into the phone, his eyes skimming over the file Percy sent him. _

_"She's doing one now, in Paris. Huge job for her too." Percy said. "You gonna take it?"_

_Marcus Alexei Flint. Russian citizen, but lived in America most his life. Aged 25. One Olympic gold and one World Championship in solo figure skating. Very public figure. Even through all the sleaze and scandal of his life, he was a winner._

_Oliver liked winners. He had been one himself._

_Marcus Alexei Flint. Wanted injured by Lee Jordan, USA Figure Skating._

_"Shit." Oliver lowly whistled. "Jordan wants him out for the Olympics, yeah?"_

_Percy made a noise of agreement, crackling through the line. "Dramatic, isn't it? He's desperate."_

_"Oh, yeah." Oliver said, seeing the price. "500,000 dollars? Can't he just train harder or something?"_

_There was a shifting sound. Percy probably shrugged. "Marcus Flint is really good."_

_Oliver could toast to that. _

* * *

Marcus finished another routine, after bending himself into another dazzling turn, and Oliver, mortifyingly, realised that he'd raised his hands to _clap, _but caught himself quickly. 

The movement caught the skater's eye. 

Marcus looked at Oliver. Oliver, in his inconspicuous tracksuit and Montreal Canadiens hat low on his head, sitting alone in the stands, just looking.

Marcus _saw _him. Took in his form, his boring state of dress, drank him in in a single glance.

His mouth curled. The glint in his eye became competitive, the same one Oliver used to see in his own eyes. He looked _bold_. 

The music started again. Marcus began to skate again, his eyes leaving Oliver's quickly. The routine was to a slower song, sultrier, and Marcus moved with less stiffness and more fluidity, his hips dipping low and his back bending. The way he danced on the ice could only be described as _seductive._

Oliver's tracksuit began to feel warm, swampy with something other than the misfortune of being seen by his target. 

It was an issue. Marcus wasn't to be killed. He'd be able to describe a threat. 

There was something in his eyes that made Oliver _deeply _uncomfortable, as if he'd been seen right through. 

He slumped into the chair more, till his neck and chin was buried into the collar of his sweatshirt, and he watched.

* * *

_"Ginny failed her assignment." Percy murmured into the phone._

_Oliver perked up. "Oh?"_

_"Yeah." Percy said wryly. "Harry wasn't too bothered, but you know what it means, right?"_

_Ginny had had a 100% success rate. Oliver had only failed one assignment before._

_Now they were tied. _

_"The raise." Oliver said, awed. _

_The most successful hitman and their handler got paid a pretty penny, by the higher-ups. Ginny had had the top spot for a year, now. _

_"If you can take care of Flint." Percy explained. "It's yours."_

* * *

Oliver sat in his apartment on his ridiculously soft couch, deep in thought, only half heartedly paying attention to the highlight reel that was playing on TV. 

Marcus Flint had seen him. It would become an issue. 

Oliver didn't do sloppy jobs. He was immaculate, his plans intricate, and he'd never been caught. For each injury, he made sure that they'd never know his face in a lineup, and his kills were _never _traced back to him, even for a man who'd been in the public eye for a short stint. 

The one job he'd failed had been a side effect, a side effect of many unfortunate events. Millicent Bulstrode had been a wild card from the start- how would he have known that she'd run away to Hawaii?

It wasn't _his_ _fault. _

He chanted this to himself, taking a long swallow of the last dregs of his Natty Lite, before crushing the can and tossing it away. It clanked next to the other three cans lying around the wastebin.

The reporters on the TV began to start talking about the upcoming Winter Olympics. They talked hockey, for a bit, Oliver listening as raptly as he could, even with the deafening buzz of the beer beginning to take effect in his head. He tuned out again when they nattered on about _skiing, _as if anyone _cared, _his mind wandering back to Millicent Bulstrode, Ginny Weasley, the raise. 

"_With Marcus Flint in the running, it's more trying to predict second and third, eh?" _The reporters joked. Oliver snapped up, and there _he_ was, on the TV screen in Oliver's lonely, cold living room. It was a good picture of him, standing on the podium that Oliver had watched him step onto only a few days ago, his skin shining against the royal purple of his costume, the outline of the top of his ribs, revealed by the low cut of the top, gleaming with sweat . 

It was a good picture. Marcus Flint looked good. 

Oliver's sweatpants felt tight. 

_"Lee Jordan is a tight second, in the world stats at the moment." _The reporters stated. "_But I'm not sure if the USA can pull it off this time, folks. Flint's last routine was given one of the highest scores in _history._"_

The picture shifted into a clip of Marcus landing a triple axel at some random competition, his mouth forming into a cocky smirk as he continued his routine, the cheer of the crowd egging him on. The smirk never left his face, only growing nastier as he finished the dance, his gelled hair out of order in spikes and sticking to the nape of his neck. His chest heaved with deep breaths, but he didn't let the fatigue show as he winked at the judges.

Oliver snarled, and shoved his hands down his boxers gracelessly. 

There was no point trying to fight it. Marcus would be gracing his TV later that week, anyways, when he'd be out of the running due to a truly terrible, tragic injury.

* * *

The day of the job was a dreary, cold, miserable day, and Oliver thought it was only the perfect setting to do something so dreary, cold, and miserable. 

After his first job, a proper _kill, _after a couple years of intense training, Oliver had thrown up. Padma Patil had been the closest to a sloppy job Oliver had ever executed. 

Now, he had hardened, a guard built up. It made the business easier. It _got _easier, as time passed. 

He didn't get involved with his clients or his targets, unless it was for a quick lay. He indulged sometimes- the job was stressful, and he needed an outlet. Percy hated when he seduced his victims, but Oliver couldn't help himself.

People liked to say they didn't mix business with pleasure. To Oliver, they intermixed, one always accompanying the other. Made the jobs worth the risk, he supposed.

That, and the hefty sum that would mysteriously appear in his bank account a couple hours after each one. 

'_It can be more.' _Oliver repeated to himself. _'The raise. I can do with the raise.' _

Marcus Flint would finish training in about half an hour, while Oliver waited in a company-provided car, clean, but nothing worth looking at or remembering. Marcus would skate off the ice, and then into the tunnel leading under the stands and to the locker rooms. In the tunnel, there were no cameras. 

Oliver would walk in, follow Marcus into the changing rooms, and a baton in his sleeve. 

It was foolproof. He'd gone over it in his head tens, hundreds, _thousands _of times. 

He'd get back in the car, and he'd leave. He'd call Percy, and he'd fly out of New York for the time being, just to be safe. 

Then it'd happen all over again. 

He sat in the car, letting the radio croon his way into relaxation. 

Oliver waited. 

* * *

The tunnel was cold, and Oliver relished the sting on his flushed cheeks from the harsh air conditioner and the breeze coming from inside the arena. 

Marcus Flint already had his skates off, holding them loosely by the laces as he walked to the changing rooms. He hadn't noticed Oliver close behind him yet. 

The baton felt strangely heavy where it hid in Oliver's sleeve, and he curled his fist, tightening it till his thumb began to ache. 

You weren't supposed to make a fist with your thumb on the inside, Oliver had learned the hard way during his time in the hockey rink. He'd gotten into a nasty skirmish one game, punching a guy in the helmet and breaking his own thumb. It was self-sabotage. Old habits died hard. 

He relaxed his fist, stretching his fingers. 

He walked into the empty changing room, sans Marcus Flint, who didn't look up from where he was putting his skates away. His hands went to the hem of his shirt, beginning to pull it up, and Oliver's pulse quickened. He inwardly cursed. 

Marcus's back was muscular, rippling with movement as he raised his shirt above his head and threw it to the side. He cocked his head, as if realising someone was in the room with him, but he didn't turn around.

"It's a private changing room." He said. His voice was gruffer, deeper than Oliver had imagined. It had only the hint of an accent, some of the consonants coming out sharp and hard. 

Now was the perfect time to hit him. To let the baton slip from his sleeve and into his hand and _hit _him. His back was to him- he wouldn't know who got him.

"I know." Oliver instead said simply. '_Why am I stalling? Now! Now!'_

But he couldn't. His hands lay limply at his sides, his body betraying his mind.

Marcus turned around then, and it took Oliver a lot of practiced self control to keep his eyes level with Marcus's, instead of feverishly raking his eyes over his body like he wanted to. 

"_You_." Marcus said, a hint of a smirk playing at his mouth. That _smirk, _the one Oliver had learned to hate over the few days of observing Marcus, but had grown to _love _as well. "You were watching me skate the other day."

"And?" 

Marcus shook his head, chuckling lowly, deep and rich and shaking his shoulders. "I know why you're here."

He was in too deep now. Marcus had gotten a good look at Oliver, at his face, his body, his composure. The only way he'd be able to get away with this was killing him.

It wasn't a part of the assignment. His stomach lurched with the thought of doing it, beating Marcus over the head, knocking him out with one blow, killing him with the second. 

"Oh?" Oliver hummed, playing at being relaxed. Marcus grinned. 

Marcus probably thought Oliver was a fan, wanting an autograph, or a suitor, coming into the changing room while Marcus was half naked. 

"Don't you think I haven't heard of you, Oliver Wood." Marcus wagged a finger playfully, and Oliver stiffened. "You can't be a skater and not know who _Oliver Wood _was, I mean _come on. _I used to play hockey too. The no-look backhanded one-timer, by the way? Your rookie season, third career goal? Very nice."

Oliver didn't know that Marcus used to play hockey. That Marcus _knew _of Oliver. It wasn't in the information Percy had given him. Oliver would be having _words _with that man soon. 

"Too bad about the injury, though." Marcus began stripping down to his boxers, black and tight against his physique. Mortifyingly enough, Oliver could feel heat rising in his cheeks. "You were really good."

"Yeah." Oliver cursed as his voice cracked slightly on the word. "I know."

"Anyways, back to the present." Marcus continued lightly, rifling through his duffel bag, not looking at Oliver. "Were you going to kill me, hurt me, or distract me?"

Oliver huffed through his nose, furious that he'd let this one get away. The raise was slipping through his fingers. There's no way he'd be able to finish this job off.

"How do you know?" Oliver sat down on the bench, the other end of where Marcus was slipping on a pair of sweatpants. Marcus laughed again. 

"Lee Jordan is an asshole." He said simply. "Lazy, poor sportsmanship, and very unsubtle. An acquaintance of mine told me Lee was thinking of, ah, _dirty tactics _to try and get me out of the running. I was warned something was coming."

Marcus finally looked up, staring Oliver up and down, from the top of his baseball cap to the bottom of his sneakers, through thick eyelashes and lowered eyelids, and he licked his bottom lip. "I just didn't know it was going to be you."

"Well." Oliver choked out. "I'm not going to be able to finish it now." 

Marcus shrugged. "I know. You weren't going to be able to finish it as soon as I saw you watching me skate. So why did you come back?"

Oliver sat dumbly, quiet. Why did he come back? He knew that being seen was breaking the number one rule of the business. 

Why risk it?

"I don't know." Oliver mumbled, embarrassed. "I'm normally very careful."

Marcus smirked. _Again. _It was infuriating. 

"I believe that." He said. "Why not this time?"

"Full of questions, aren't you?" Oliver muttered crankily. "I don't _know, _alright? I don't-"

"You're pretty, for a killer." Marcus interrupted, looking over Oliver again. "Call your handler."

Oliver gawped, shocked at the amount of _nerve _this man had, ordering a trained _assassin _who was sent to _maim _him around. At the same time, his hand reached for the burner phone in his pocket. 

"Tell him," Marcus continued, finally shrugging a shirt on and lifting his bag over his shoulder. "That it was too risky- that I was with my security team, that there was a suspected plot on me." 

Oliver's fingers began plugging the number into his phone, while sirens went off in his head, blaring loudly. 

"Then, let's go get drinks." He finished, satisfied with Oliver's dropped jaw. "Let's talk this out like gentlemen, hm?"

"You're crazy." Oliver stated, already knowing that the raise was gone, Percy would be pissed, that Lee Jordan would lose the Olympics. Marcus _giggled. _

Oliver raised the phone to his ear, the dial tone ringing loudly till it was all he could hear. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments greatly appreciated xoxooxo


End file.
